100 Steps
by Ra MayKaizen
Summary: 100 theme challenge set to Gregory and Christophe/ze Mole. Friends, partners, lovers-- all the aspects of their relationship.
1. Introduction

**Author's Note: **Hi all, Ra here! I had some help on this from Schrod1ng3r—she did Christophe's lines for me (well, wrote them with his accent or whatever 'cos I fail). Another south park fic, btw. This is, quite possibly, my favorite pairing. Like you have no idea. Anyways. This is done to one of the various 100-theme challenges I have. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park. South Park and all related names and characters belong to the epicness of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Warning: **This fic IS Gregory x Christophe as some points, so if you don't like, don't stick around. You've been warned.

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**Introduction- 001**

It was raining the first day that Gregory met him. Gregory. . . had never been a fan of the rain, really. It always seemed to rain at home, and it made everything that much more dismal. Though often times, that's just how things were: dismal. With the way his mind worked, he saw things in a very complicated manner—it wasn't something he could help.

The first time they met, it was no different. The facts were simple: Gregory's parents were out of town, as per usual, and he was supposed to be going to church with his nanny. Supposed to be meaning he'd slipped away in favor of trekking through a shady pass, looking up to the trees above him. They formed a sort of canopy over his head, though did nothing to protect him from the rain. He continued looking up as he walked—proving to be a bad idea. His feet suddenly lost all solidity beneath him—He was falling, down a dark hole. He was uncertain as to whether or not he let out a small cry, until he felt himself hit the bottom of the hole.

He groaned and sat up—that had _hurt_. Directly in front of him was a tunnel. He wasn't sure where it went, but right now, it wasn't important. He looked up to the opening of the tunnel, then around at relatively smooth sides… There was no way out, was there?

Gregory stood, dusting himself off with practiced hands. At six years old, he was already quite educated in the ways of being 'proper'—his nanny had made sure of that. Little hands patted the dirt walls… There were not foot holes or any other way out—

"What are you doing 'ere?" demanded a rough voice. Gregory whipped around—he was face to face with a rather dirty Frenchman. His height, with messy brown hair and dirt-caked skin, the child before him also had a cigarette hanging from his lips and bandages randomly on his face and hands. Gregory noted how the other kid had a shovel on his back, rope around one shoulder and a sash from the other—the sash had various pockets (it almost looked like something from the military, Gregory realized).

"I fell down the hole," he admitted embarrassedly when he realized the other boy was watching him with a strange animosity.

"You Breetish beetches watch where you're going, n'est-ce pas?" The other boy spat, his mannerisms on the offensive for reasons Gregory didn't know.

"You've an awful mouth for a child." He frowned at the foul language, shaking his head.

"Who're calling a child, beetch?"

"You, obviously," Gregory replied, crossing his arms. "Why are you digging a hole?"

"Eet eez none of your beeziness," the dirty child replied, pushing past Gregory. He inspected the walls before realizing he too, was stuck in this hole. Gregory watched as the brunette began to swear in French, then looked up to the top of the hole. They had to get out somehow… His mind worked quickly—if he stood on the other kid's shoulders, he could get out and then… hm… He looked around before noticing the rope on the other's shoulder.

"Hey, kid, I know how we can get out of here." Gregory's voice was confident—wasn't it always though? He knew what he was talking about—this _would_ work. He didn't give the other boy a chance to speak, continuing on. "If you give me your rope, I can climb on your shoulders and get out… tie the rope around a tree and toss the other end down to help you back out."

The other boy stared hard at Gregory, as if thinking. Gregory waited patiently, knowing that there was no other way out. Finally the dirty kid grabbed Gregory's front collar, snarling.

"Eef you don't 'old up your end—"

"I will, on my honor." Gregory lifted his hands, completely calm. He leaned away from the other slightly, not enjoying having cigarette smoke snarled in his face. The other kid let him go and walked over the wall, grumbling—he didn't think this was going to work. Just because Gregory didn't speak French didn't mean he couldn't figure out what the other was grumbling about. But then, moments later, they were putting their plan into action and he was climbing out of the hole. The front of his shirt was so dirty—Ugh, dirt. He shook his head and got up, brushing himself off.

"Tie eet up, beetch!" The dirty boy called from down the hole. Gregory considered—very briefly—leaving him there. But, he'd said 'on my honor' and on his honor it was. He tied one end around a tree and brought the rope back to the hole.

"I have a name, you know." Gregory said, leaning over the opening and looking down the rope in his hand. "It's Gregory Thorne." He expected to be called by his name before he tossed the rope down. The dirty kid looked up to him.

"Euh… So what? I don't care," he grumbled angrily. Gregory shook his head.

"I don't appreciate being called a 'bitch'. If you want this, you'll call me by my name. I think that's fair, don't you?" Gregory's voice was tauntingly cool, watching the other boy with cold eyes. There was a groan and a grumble. "Or… well, at least tell me your name." He would settle for that too—maybe he could get the other boy in trouble for this…

". . . beetch."

Gregory waited quietly.

". . . Christophe," the dirty kid said finally. "Christophe DeLorn. Now toss zee damn rope down, beetch!" Gregory rolled his eyes, tossing the rope down to the brunette.

"Nice to meet you, Christophe," he said politely, out of habit. He backed away from the hole then, hurrying away—church would be ending soon, and his nanny would have a fit if she couldn't find him. The other boy—well, he could probably get out of the hole on his own, so Gregory wasn't going to worry about that.

He saw the crowd leaving church—he'd made it back in time. He went to his nanny's side—

"Where 'ave you been?" She demanded, walking him to the car the chauffeur had brought around. She climbed into the back of the vehicle, Gregory following suit.

"Well, I decided to go for a walk since our study ended early today," he lied easily and flashed his cutely charming smile—the nanny fell for it every time. She smiled at him and adjusted his blonde curls about his face dotingly. "I fell, and then I met a boy," he continued as she doted on him.

"Oh, you made a friend?" his nanny giggled, taking out a tissue and starting to clean dirt from his face.

"…Er… yes." He hadn't thought it like that at all—a friend? That boy was—well… it was possible. It might be nice to have a friend to rely on…He always had a hard time making friends with other kids his age, but maybe this time…

"Wot is 'is name?"

"Pardon--? Oh, his name? It's Christophe." Gregory smiled a bit. A friend. He'd have to go meet with that dirty boy again and at least try… He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes as the car headed home.

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**Author's Note**: Bah that was a pain. Uh. These probably won't be in a time-line order… but I'll make some note somewhere of their ages 8D Here, they're both six. And in England. A few things to note:

-Gregory's nanny has a thicker accent, hence the reason I typed it.

-Schrod1ng3r is a goddess. XD Just throwing that out there.

There was more but I forgot. Anyways, thanks for reading! See you in ch.2!


	2. Love

**Author's Note: **Hi, back for ch.2 here! This theme is Love. For the record, I listened to "You don't Know What Love Is" by the White Stripes for this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park. South Park and all related names and characters belong to the epicness of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Warning: **This fic IS Gregory x Christophe as some points, so if you don't like, don't stick around. You've been warned.

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**Love- 002**

Gregory never out right claimed to be in love. He was an expert at faking it—a charming smile, a few meaningless words here and there… It usually made the women around him weak at the knees. By the time he was in high school, he was receiving love confessions every few days from his female peers. Sometimes, there would be the rare confession from a male admirer, but he treated them all the same. It usually followed a formula—

"Gregory, I… Would you go out with me?" The female would ask, blushing and shy. Gregory, who had been writing in a small moleskin notebook—something he always carried with him—would look up at her, sky blue eyes so openly honest… Well, that's how it would seem. He was very good at guarding his thoughts and true emotions—to the point where it had become difficult for him to open up truthfully to anyone. Not that there was anyone who deserved to know, except---

But he'd flash the female a charming smile, pulling out his best apologetic look— and he could see in her eyes, she realized he was about to turn her down and her heart was breaking…. Some part of him felt bad, but he'd long since realized that no girl could take the place of—

"I'm sorry, but I just haven't the time for relationships," he'd lie easily. And she would tear up.

"But I love you."

And Gregory hated those words. He'd heard them so often from these girls who gave him all the attention he could ever want— growing up without his parents around much had caused him to push himself to get their praise when they were home. But it wasn't enough—they didn't praise him, these teenagers he attended school with… many of the women there adored him, showered him with praise and attention—it wasn't enough. It wasn't what he wanted.

But still, he smiled that charmingly apologetic smile, speaking gently, "I apologize, but I can't say I reciprocate those feelings."

And the female—he really couldn't even remember her name—would run off crying. And he was pretty sure he should feel bad for her but it was her own fault. She probably didn't even know what love was… The snort beside him would get his attention and he looked over to the only woman who had never given any indications of liking him. She was, quite possibly, the only woman here that had any intelligence—and she did count as friend, one of the few he had.

"You ought to just tell them you're spoken for," she remarked, sipping cola through a straw. She was an American, her mannerisms quite opposite of the well-trained Gregory.

"Spoken for?" He echoed and shook his head. He'd never given any hint to such an idea—"I'm not spoken for, Rachel."

She gave a laugh and flipped dark curls over her shoulder. "That's what you _say_ but you can't fool my intuition, hun."

Gregory rolled his eyes but smiled at her—his charms never seemed to affect her, but he was quite certain the reasoning for that was because she played for the opposite team. Rachel just grinned at him, leaning over his desk.

"I bet you're writing about that special someone in your notebook~"

He waved a gloved hand, shaking his head. "Have you theories; what I write in here is far more important than an idea easily sold." He couldn't say whether or not what he felt for that one person was love—he wasn't going to claim to know how it felt, but the thought of that one person… He couldn't help the smile that crept to his face.

"You're thinking about that person." Rachel's words snapped him from his reverie. Blue eyes finally lifted again from the notebook and focused on her hazel ones.

"You certainly enjoy your wild ideas, don't you?"

"Coming from the revolutionist."

"I'm not revolutionary, Rachel… I just have too much time on my hands." But such ideas— they had brought him closer to the French mercenary… His eyes looked back down to his notebook and he continued writing, making sure to keep his scribbles from her view. Rachel snorted and shook her head.

"I could tell from the way you smiled. I bet your crush can tell your real smiles from your fake ones too," she spoke softly, making sure none of their peers could hear their private conversation. Gregory's hand paused in its work and Rachel grinned—she'd hit some nerve, hadn't she? Slowly, he looked back to her, his expression cold.

"It would be in both of our best interests to discontinue this topic now. Love is nothing but a marketing tool used by companies to sell their various products." His words were harsh, said quickly and in a low voice—Rachel raised an eyebrow before huffing and waving him off.

"Whatever, dude." And she walked away. Gregory watched her leave before going back to his notebook. He'd been trying for weeks to figure out how to get these words to sound right but he couldn't. . . It seemed so fake, no matter how he wrote it—Well, what did it matter? His past few letters to Christophe had all been returned on account of the wrong address… He had yet to give up though. He couldn't. Not yet. Maybe this would be his last letter—if he could ever get it to sound right.

And the rest of the school day passed by without much of a hitch—he got another two confessions, both of which he turned down. Then, classes were over and his chauffer was waiting outside the building. He went to his car, climbing into the back and leaving without a glance back. He'd chosen to go to high school for the sake of observance—he was too smart for all of his classes, passing them with ease… It was the people he was more concerned about. He wanted to observe how they interacted with one another. But he'd about had his fill of it. He was losing interest in them again.

Trees, stores, people; everything passed by his window quickly and carelessly. He stared unseeingly out the window until the car had stopped at his home—a large mansion, with a lot of land—and he got out. He moved into the building and up the stairs, confining himself to his room. He had an idea of what to write—plain and simple. He'd write it, then send it and hope Christophe got it. He locked his door and sat the desk, pulling out his favorite ink pen and a sheet of plain paper. No, there would be nothing fancy about this—well, except his well-practiced hand writing, but that didn't count. He always wrote like that.

_Dear Christophe,_

_I have sent many letters to you over the past few months, though they've all come back. This… is my final attempt. I plan on leaving home for a while, you see, so getting in touch with me will become quite difficult. Traveling is a good way to gain knowledge—and that's precisely what I plan to do. As this is a letter, I'll end those plans there and keep this brief. How are you though? Well, I hope. _

_Since this is my last letter for a while, there's something else I'd like you to know. I'm not quite sure how to write this without it sounding strange or clichéd—I suppose expressing myself isn't quite in my list of fortes. But…_

He stopped writing, letting out a slow breath. This was it. He was going to write his confession and send it and then…. If Christophe ever saw it… He swallowed hard but nodded determinedly. He picked his pen back up and continued to write.

_I need you to know this. I. . . harbour very strong feelings for you, Chris. Stronger than any I've had for anyone before. I would like to admit it to be love, but I don't rightly know what love is. Isn't that sad? But Christophe, when I think about you and your well being, I feel quite delighted. I hope this strange, mangled confession doesn't scare you off. _

_I hope . . . that whatever you're doing now, you're happy. And I hope to see you again sometime. Stay safe, dear Christophe. _

_Sincerely yours,_

_Gregory Thorne _

Gregory leaned back, blue eyes skimming over elegant letters. He held his breath—he was terrified of what Christophe would think or say—but if Christophe never got the letter… Well, either way, it was on paper; he kind of felt better for it. He blew on the paper a few times, making sure the ink dried entirely before he folded it up slowly and tucked it into an envelope. He sealed the envelope and addressed it before taking it out to the mail—And then it was ready to go and hopefully it would reach Christophe… Gregory turned and hurried back into his house; he needed to clean something, get his mind off his confession…

But as he cleaned his room, his mind wandered to what Christophe's reaction would be. Would he laugh and burn the letter? Or… maybe, if Gregory was lucky… Christophe would reciprocate his feelings—that thought made his stomach fill with butterflies and his heart throb. Was this how those girls felt? Oh, what did it matter? He set down a pile of books and sighed. To think, after all this time, his deepest, most romantic feelings would be for a childhood friend…

Gregory sat on his bed, sighing. He lay back, staring at the canopy above the four-post bed. Sometime after that, in his thoughts of Christophe and his reaction… he realized that it _must_ be love… and as he realized this, his mind dropped off into sleep.

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**Author's Note:** HAHAH chapter two. Goddamn I love this pairing. Rachel is a no-one OC I just made up on the spot for this chapter. She may or may not show up again.

In this, Gregory is in his teens—probably 16/17 age wise, though I really don't have a definite.

I kinda got carried away with my writing. Oops. XD Then I came back and realized it needed to end or it never would. Go me.

If you read this, you should review and I'll love you forever. Till next time!

-Ra Maykazien


	3. Light

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park. South Park and all related names and characters belong to the epicness of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

**Warning: **This fic IS Gregory x Christophe as some points, so if you don't like, don't stick around. You've been warned.

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**Light 003**

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They have been in New York for a week. The hotel they're in is absolutely beautiful—Gregory paid for it, of course. The sun is just rising when Gregory feels the warmth leave their bed and he sits up. He's groggy, having been up with his lover all night… He rubs one eye and he can see Christophe's form leaning against the balcony outside, smoking. They're high up, with a view of the city so breathtaking even God himself would envy it.

Gregory, his hair still a mess, and lacking all clothing aside from his sweatpants, slips out of bed. Slowly, he makes his way over to the other male and wraps his arms around Christophe's taut waist. His head is situated on the other man's shoulder, warm breath dancing across the back of the brunette's neck. The air around them is chilly and it sends goose bumps down Gregory's skin. But at the moment, he doesn't mind, because he is happy. Rogues like them—he was certain that's what they were and that's what this love of theirs was—had very few chances at happiness. They had been lucky enough to find each other; "With the grace of God" he'd say, earning a snort and roll of the eyes from Christophe.

Here they were, lucky to be together, lucky to be alive—at the age of 23—in New York City. It is a quiet morning, a rarity in such a big city—a fine mist hangs in the air, settled for the moment but as the day goes on, it will vanish, undoubtedly… Christophe speaks and Gregory smiles, listening to the soft French—Sometimes, his partner doesn't even bother with English; Christophe was quite sure that Gregory knew what he was saying, though it had never actually been brought up—neither of them cared to discuss it.

When Gregory doesn't reply, Christophe glances back over his shoulder, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He speaks again but Gregory is lost in thought. He is thinking about how oddly beautiful the tanned, scarred and dirty body in his arms is, and he is thinking about how utterly pitiful some of these thoughts are but he smiles. He kisses along Christophe's back and the Frenchman arches his back slightly, huffing and stopping the blonde. Sometimes, he is quite annoyed with the way Gregory acts and sometimes he's quite annoyed with how pretentious Gregory is but all the time he loves him, even when they fight.

And, in all honesty, Christophe is disappointed when Gregory finally pulls away to stand beside him. The blonde reaches over and plucks the cancer stick from between his partner's lips and takes a drag on it, letting the smoke curl from his mouth in a strangely sexy manner. Christophe snorts and takes the cigarette back, shaking his head and mumbling, "beetch." Gregory just smiles. He takes Christophe's hand, a gesture which holds much more loving tenderness than either man would ever admit to showing. His eyes are focused on the horizon, watching as the sun begins to light up the sky.

The Frenchman looks over to his English lover, absolutely quiet. Once the sun was up, Gregory would be off to shower and make breakfast; Christophe would eat before dashing off to take care of work… He gives a soft snort, studying the way the light dances along blonde waves, wind caressing pale skin with an invisible touch… He notes the way Gregory's eyes close slightly, the way he lifts his face into the breeze and how long lashes protect sky blue eyes—Christophe smirks. He knows what a flirt Gregory is, how Gregory easily charms women with a fake but strikingly charming smile and he feels smug knowing that Gregory's real smiles are his and his alone. _Take that, bitches_, he thinks and turns his attention away from Gregory's face to his hand, clasping tightly to his own. He considers their history together and how many times these hands had clashed with his own, had hit his own face… He smiles slightly, recalling childhood adventures, a trip to the zoo once or twice… And right now, in a show of rarity, Gregory isn't wearing gloves and neither is Christophe. It's bare skin against bare skin, just like when they're in bed together, under the covers in the throes of passion.

Somewhere away from their current residence, a bird awakes and sings. Christophe is drawn from his reverie and he looks out across the city, eyes watching as people come out from the woodwork, beginning their day. Quietly, he puts out his cigarette and turns to Gregory, who is watching him with a gentle smile. And Christophe huffs, in a teasing defense, demanding,

"What are you smiling at, beetch?"

Gregory merely shakes his head, laughing at the question and pulling Christophe closer. His free hand moves to the back of the other's neck and he pulls Christophe into a chaste kiss. Christophe smirks, knowing he could win a point and wraps his arms around Gregory's waist and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss in an instant. His tongue pushes past perfect lips, invading the blonde's mouth with a fierce dominance—And Gregory sees the challenge the minute it's issued and he fights back, their tongues quickly engaging in a war—

But Christophe has to pull back, his lung aching for air, the years of smoking not helping his cause. Gregory smirks at him, running a hand through dirty brown locks. He shakes his head, bringing his lips to Christophe's ear and he can just tell that it sends shivers down the other's spine when he speaks.

"Nice try, but I won that round," he says softly. And Christophe scoffs and pulls back, mumbling in French as he heads back into the hotel room. Gregory doesn't move from the balcony yet, watching him go. He smiles and shakes his head. To the outside world, they are business partners and they are best friends. To the elements that run the world, they are raw emotion—love, hate, lust, rage… The two of them are perfectly fit to a yin-yang. Gregory came from a well bred background, though he lacked loving parents, he could have anything he had ever wanted. And his behavior was calculated and calm and planned out ahead of time, to the point of cruelty. Christophe, on the other hand, had come from a less than stellar home life, a broken home with a mother who wanted desperately to embrace God… He didn't then and even now he still doesn't. Christophe is hot headed and acts often off his emotions right at that moment—Yes, they are very different but at the same time… they have striking similarities.

Gregory smiles at the thought. They have their dark sides—perhaps that's all they really are but even if that makes up most of them… Well, they have each other. And, it is sickeningly cliché—he is well aware of this—but if he has to say, he knows that one of his better points are the raw emotions he feels for Christophe. A sort of a twisted love, but it is the light in his life, at the end of the tunnel, and at the end of the day, no matter the blood, sweat, tears and grim they are covered in, they have each other. And that is a light that nothing can ever replace; that is all that matters.

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Thanks for reading shot 003: Light!

I got tired of having Author's note at the beginning and end; it looked tacky so I cut the 'author's note' tag out. Pfft. Anyway, this is just to let you all know how I'm going to go about the next bit. So, since this is the 100 theme challenge, what I'm going to do is divide it up. There will be five parts with ten chapters in each, so this one will have seven more chapters after this.

In any event, I hope you enjoyed it and plan to stick around for the rest! Read and review, but remember to be civil or else you'll find you don't like what happens. Teehee!


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